


Vessels for Fate

by Weemamee



Series: Duskendale AU [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Defiance of Duskendale, F/M, Falling In Love, Slow Burn, Tourney at Harrenhal, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-05-21 11:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14914571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weemamee/pseuds/Weemamee
Summary: Duskendale AU. King Aerys II perishes during his imprisonment in Duskendale. As a consequence, Rhaegar becomes the Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and the game of thrones is changed for the better. The story follows Rhaegar and Lyanna as they grow, meet at Harrenhal, and begin their long-lasting reign.





	1. May The Gods...

**Author's Note:**

> The below is my personal take on Rhaegar and Lyanna's appearance based on books/show and things GRRM has said. I had @Konstra on Fiverr design them based some photoshop images I created.

 

**Seventh Moon of 277 AC - King’s Landing**

_Rhaegar POV_

Even at the age of eight and ten, Rhaegar could feel a stiffness form in his back. A steward had carried out pillows when he first arrived, but he had regretfully declined them. He sat in a finely carved chair in front of the looming Iron Throne. The throne of his ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, and the throne of fifteen kings before his father. His own seat also dated back to Aegon’s rule, but Rhaegar was beginning to believe it had been a chair used in torture.

He had spent the past six hours listening to petitions from his father’s subjects and was now observing a small council meeting.

He knew the stress was not just from how long he had sat in the wooden chair. For five moons his father had been held captive in Duskendale after attempting to bring a defiant Lord Darklyn to heel. With his father imprisoned, Rhaegar had been named Lord Regent by the small council. The Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, had taken over most of the duties but had little time for the woes of lower lords and smallfolk.

Rhaegar was abruptly drawn from his musings by the sound of Lord Qarlton Chelsted’s palm slamming down on the table. His mind had wandered when Lord Chelsted and Lord Staunton began arguing with Lord Lannister over the lack of progress in freeing the king. The Crownland lords had always been a nuisance, but today they were more so than ever. Tywin Lannister seemed to agree.

The Lord of Casterly Rock stood up to tower over the men. In a terse tone, he stated, “I am not required to tell you of any plans, my lords. If I did, His Grace’s life could be at further risk.” Tywin looked as though he had taken a sip of spoiled milk—an expression often seen on his face.

“Our beloved sovereign appointed us on account of his _trust_ in us,” Lord Staunton responded crossly. Rhaegar noted that the gilded robes the Master of Laws wore did little to hide the size of his portly waist. His dark gray hair was slicked back with Lysene oil—causing the throne room to smell of sweet perfume. Sat to Staunton’s left was Grand Maester Pycelle. The subservient man had remained quiet during the council meeting—only speaking when he agreed with Rhaegar or Tywin.

“Hear, hear!” Lord Chelsted bellowed in agreement. “Well said, Lord Staunton. It is our right to be made aware of all attempts to rescue him.”

It took an iron will to suppress the urge to roll his eyes at them. Rhaegar had decided months earlier that he would remain impartial in the council meetings. His face always set in a mask of cool courtesy—showing no favors or opposition. With much regret, he rose from his seat and silenced the council.

“It has been weeks, Lord Tywin,” Rhaegar began in a calm voice. He heard the words echo throughout the vast throne room. “Mayhaps a report on my father’s safety is needed.”

The man gave him a long, searching stare in return and Rhaegar held his gaze. His father’s Hand was not someone Rhaegar wanted as an enemy. Through observations, he sensed Tywin currently saw his father as one.

Tywin Lannister had been one of Aerys’ closest ally since the beginning of his reign. However, their relationship was notoriously turbulent due to Aerys’ moods and actions. Both men had changed for the worst in the years since the respective deaths of Lady Joanna and Rhaegar’s infant brother, Jaehaerys. During last summer’s tournament in Lannisport, Aerys had refused an offer on Rhaegar's behalf for the hand of Tywin's young daughter. Driven by his paranoia, Aerys had gone as far as to claim Tywin was merely his servant, and no servant's daughter was fit to marry a future king. The tourney had ended any bond between the two men.

Cersei Lannister was a pretty child and would likely blossom into a great beauty. Most girls her age cared for dolls and held innocent notions of love—the young lioness, however, looked at Rhaegar as though he was her prey. He was used to girlhood crushes of serving maids, but Cersei’s obvious attraction towards him made Rhaegar uncomfortable. He could see through her attempts at subtlety.

For once, he was pleased with a tactless decision made by his father.

After the small pause, the Lord of Casterly Rock decided to reveal some details. “Ser Barristan Selmy has not traveled to the Stormlands as stated last week. He is performing a task in Duskendale in service to his king. I will not give any more details than need be.”

Rhaegar nodded as the others grumbled in response. Ser Gerold Hightower had given him a similar report two weeks before. “How soon will we know the results of the mission?”

“Within the flight of a raven, Your Grace.”

The meeting adjourned shortly after Tywin’s disclosure and Rhaegar was finally able to retire to his rooms. Ser Arthur silently walked beside him as they made their way down the corridor. He was thankful for Arthur’s ability to sense his mood. Rhaegar needed silence after the long day.

As his mind drifted, his thoughts were drawn to Tywin’s last statement. _Within the flight of a raven._

With a sense of foreboding, he recalled the saying, _‘dark wings, dark words.’_

\----

“Father is dead.”

Rhaegar did not know how else to announce it.

His young mother’s lilac eyes stared at him in stunned disbelief. They were seated in her solar with sunlight streaming into the room. It was a large, airy space that seemed too peaceful for the dark conversation taking place.

The two of them had not been alone since her confinement to Maegor's Holdfast seven years ago. He could tell she had prepared herself when he sent away her septas, servants, and kingsguards, but the news surprised her nonetheless. She likely felt the same emotions he had experienced when told by Lord Tywin. Shock, pain, and fear—tinged with _relief._

“Ser Barristan went on a mission to rescue him and found a corpse instead. Father had been dead for days,” he spoke with little emotion. Rhaegar was still processing the news himself. “Ser Barristan retrieved the body and killed the men responsible for Ser Gwayne’s death. He took an arrow whilst escaping, but is recuperating with Lord Velaryon’s men. Father’s remains are being sent here by honor guard and silent sisters.”

A lull fell over the room after he finished.

Sitting in silence with his mother was an act he was accustomed to—even before their forced estrangement caused by his father. Regardless, he held Rhaella in high esteem. Not many would have been able to survive his father’s exploits the way that she had. Aerys had flaunted his mistresses at court, but Rhaegar knew she endured most of her harassment behind closed doors.

His mother had been only a young girl when she bore him in the flames of Summerhall. Rhaegar often wondered if his presence reminded her of the tragedy that had occurred that fateful day. While he knew Rhaella cared for him, his nursemaids had often shown him more affection when he was a child.

Rhaella rested a closed hand against her mouth as she looked out of a window and stared out to the gardens. “How will you end the rebellion?”

“I have given Lord Tywin the command to sack the city but to spare women and children from harm. Any known conspirators will be sent to Night’s Watch or the Silent Sisters. Lord Darklyn and Lady Serala will be brought to the capital to greet their fates. All their lands and incomes will go to another house,” he replied. He knew he needed to show a display of power to the realm after his father’s demise.

His mother, the Queen, inclined her head in a wordless agreement. Or was she the Queen _Mother_ now? Only a half hour had passed yet it felt like it had been a year. He had not been crowned, but the small council and four of the kingsguards had knelt and sworn fealty to him. Ser Gerold had taken over Arthur’s role of being his silent shadow with Prince Lewyn by his side. Knights who always guarded his father now looked after him.

“Is _it_ really over?”

Rhaegar cast his eyes down and nodded. He did not need clarification as to the ‘it’ she had meant. “He was… never the same after Jaehaerys, was he?”

“He was never completely sane. The madness was always in him, Rhaegar,” she replied. Neither wanted to remember his father’s instability or his actions. She stood and then walked over where a flagon of wine sat for a page to serve. She poured two glasses and said, “Had he survived… well, it is best not to dwell on possibilities. I thank the gods we will not find out.”

He leaned his head back on the cushioned chair as he took the wine from her. Rhaella sipped from her glass before continuing, “We must prepare for the coming days. We cannot show weakness.”

“I am aware. I have yet to sit upon the throne, and already they circle like harpies. Maester Pycelle was bold enough to state I am now free to marry Cersei Lannister.” Rhaegar frowned at the memory. He often wondered how Tywin won the maester’s loyalty. Pycelle had to be indebted to him in some fashion, whether it be coin or information.

She reacted by arching her brow and asking, “And did you discourage him?”

“Of course. I told him that I do not wish for a child bride. Maidens flower as early as ten-and-two, but I want a woman grown. Aware of the duties of a Queen.”

“Then you will wed Myriah’s daughter?” Though she tried to hide it, he could tell the news pleased her. She had always wanted to wed him to the daughter of her good friend, the Princess of Dorne.

“Viserys is my heir. I am more concerned about bringing the realm together. Our alliances with the liege lords are at their weakest, and we need to send a message of strength and unity if I am to remain ruler of the seven kingdoms. Finding me a wife can wait,” Rhaegar stated almost forcefully.

“Once my grandfather took the throne, he was told that it takes a man to rule. That he needed to kill the boy and let the man be born. That burden is now yours.” Rhaella looked at him with sad eyes. “What is a man without a woman by his side? You will need to share it with a queen eventually, my son.”

“We shall see.”

Most of the kingdom’s eligible ladies were still too young to wed. Lord Tyrell and Lord Tully both had a few daughters, and he believed Lord Stark had one as well. He knew that waiting a few years would give him more time to build stronger alliances without solidifying a marital one. Rhaegar was also aware that choosing a wife might also provoke political instability. He would need to surround himself with strong advisors—not sycophants from his father’s court.

His mother let out a small bitter laugh. It appeared her mind had wandered as well when she remarked, “The Lord of Duskendale will forever be known as a kingslayer, but it was your father’s hubris that truly took his life.” Rhaella raised her glass and stared at him with her mouth set in a hard line.

“May the gods take pity on his soul.”

 

* * *

 

****Tenth Moon of 277 AC** \- Winterfell**

_Lyanna POV_

“ _Must_ you leave, Father?”

Lyanna watched as her lord father packed away his books into a well-worn leather satchel. His solar was often littered with parchments and misplaced tomes from the library. Today was no different. The rest of his belongings had been packed by servants.

Weeks before, her father had received an invitation to the new king’s coronation in King’s Landing. He was traveling South for the first time since she was a babe. Furthermore, it would be his longest journey since her mother had died.

“Is your whinging due to the fear of missing me or because I have named your brother as castellan,” her father asked and grinned as the corners of his eyes crinkled. She pursed her lips at the thought of Brandon in charge of anything.

“You worry for naught, sweetling. Maester Walys will keep things in order.” The thought of the maester deepened her frown. Her father sighed and gently cupped her face. His thumb tried to smooth out the line formed between her brows before she pulled away. Though Lyanna had only seen her eleventh nameday, she often felt much older than Brandon’s fifteen years. “If the winds are kind, we should reach the capital in a turn of the moon, and we will return North within six. Eight months at the latest.”

“How safe is it to sail to King’s Landing?”

“Safer than to ride there on horseback. I have seen more reports of brigands and wildings than of shipwrecks.”

“And why take Ben?”

“For if he drowns, I will only lose a third son,” he said with a straight face. She burst out with a loud cry of, _“Father!”_ and his grin returned brightly. She always thought of her father as comely when he smiled. He had a stern face, but rarely around her. At age two and forty, his newly cropped brown hair and clean-shaven face made him look younger than his years. Winterfell’s barber had taken his blade to many faces that morning before the journey South.

“Benjen has been undone ever since Eddard left for the Eyrie. Perhaps meeting the new king and a couple of knights will cheer his spirits. He’s always wanted to be a knight, hasn’t he?” He returned to his books and Lyanna walked over to the window. People were milling about outside as men said goodbye to their families. Hullen, the master-of-horse, was saddling steeds while servants were packing away the rations.

“He will be converted to the Faith by the time you return,” Lyanna grumbled and lamented the thought. Southerners were strange with their gods of seven.

“There are worse fates.” Her father finished packing his bag and swung it over his head. She turned back to face him. “In any case, I need you to be my eyes while I am away. You should not interfere, but tell me of any issues that arise.” He opened the coin pouch at his hip and plucked a few coins from it. He handed her the silver stags and said, “For if you need it,” and kissed the top of her head. She doubted her father gave her brothers as much coin.

She followed close behind him as he walked out and started down the stairs. They made their way down to the yard where she saw Lord Willis Dustin and Martyn Cassel standing beside her brothers. Brandon was whispering to their younger brother, and she watched as Benjen’s blue eyes grew large. Huffing out a deep sigh at his now pale face, she stalked up to them and demanded to know what Brandon had said to frighten him.

“Mind yourself, little sister.” He gave her an annoying wink and tugged on her braided hair. Lyanna wanted nothing more than to push him in the dirt. He _knew_ not to touch her hair. “I was warning poor Benjy about the ice dragon that likes to travel west from the Shivering Sea.”

“Don’t listen to him, Ben. There is _no_ such thing,” she stated in exasperation. Without Ned present, he had taken to teasing their youngest brother relentlessly. Brandon stood tall—though, not as tall as their father—with his raven hair wild and the beginning of a beard across his face. His eyes were upturned and narrow like Benjen’s but dark gray like Lyanna, Ned, and their father. She supposed he had striking features—he certainly acted as such. She had already witnessed the hearts he had stolen in Winterfell. Her ladies—Berena Hornwood and Sybelle Locke—were always making fools of themselves over him. If only they knew how wool-headed he was.

“Are you sure, Lya?” Her youngest brother asked quietly.

“Brandon is only envious of your grand adventure.”

“I am not!”

 _“Children.”_ The gruff sound of their Father’s voice straightened their backs, and the three of them turn to face him. Lyanna watch as her father stood before her eldest brother. “Brandon, I will not be here for you the next few months. You will need to protect Winterfell as well as your sister from any harm.” He tipped his head in Lyanna’s direction before squeezing Brandon’s shoulder. “Take this time to learn how to rule in my absence and under Lord Dustin and Maester Walys’ tutelage.” He paused before adding, “You must be ready for when your lordship begins.”

“By the gods’ will, that won’t come to pass for many years, Father,” Brandon said with a laugh and clasped their father’s arm in farewell.

“ _Winter is coming_ , my son,” he reminded him. Her brother frowned and solemnly returned their house words. Lyanna saw her father turn as Maester Walys walked up and she tried her best not to scowl.

Old Maester Cato passed suddenly two years ago, and the Citadel had sent the Starks a new maester shortly after. Cato had been a kind mentor who taught her the same as her brothers, despite her gender. As soon as he arrived, Maester Walys had nearly convinced her father she needed to forgo her studies and learn the skills of a Southern maiden. They eventually found a compromise with Lady Donella Manderly tutoring her in music, poetry, needlepoint, and manners. Lyanna also continued her lessons in arithmetic, language, and history. Lady Donella was a kind, gentle woman who had been recently betrothed to Berena’s brother, Halys Hornwood. Her father had given his blessing to their union just a fortnight ago.

“Maester Walys, I place the lives of my children in your hands. Give my son your voice in all things while I am away.”

The maester nodded fervently. “Of course, my lord.”

Lyanna hugged Benjen tightly and ruffled his hair. He gave her a weak smile before he shook Brandon’s outreached hand. With a laugh, he said, “Try not to kill one another. I’ll need someone to spar with when I return.”

“No promises,” Lyanna jested in response. Hullen brought out two fine palfreys for her lord father and helped Benjen on to one of the horses. Thirty men were going on the voyage to King’s Landing in her father's retinue of sworn swords and men-at-arms. The king’s coronation would be celebrated with a small melee tourney, and a few of the men hoped to participate. Her father spoke to one of his bannermen before returning to her and Brandon. After giving her a rib-crushing hug, her father bid them his farewells and followed the others onto his mount.

Lyanna watched as their horses took them past Winterfell’s gates. A cold wind brushed against her cheeks as she whispered a prayer.

“May the gods keep them safe.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This my first fanfic in 15 years and I hope my writing has improved since then! I have most of Act II completed, but it may be a few months before I post the next few chapters. I felt that maybe posting would light a fire under me! Let me know what y'all think.


	2. Dreams Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The below is my personal take on Rhaegar and Lyanna's appearance based on books/show and things GRRM has said. I had @Konstra on Fiverr design them based some photoshop images I created.

 

 ** **Eleventh Moon of 277 AC** \- King’s Landing** **  
**

_Rhaegar POV_

As the coronation approached, King’s Landing had begun to teem with smallfolk, servants, and lower lords. Dwellings and inns were overfull, and even the brothels were turning men away. Outside the city walls, many had taken to camping in the tourney grounds by King’s Gate. With the increased population came lawlessness. The City Watch had been strengthened to keep the peace, but there had been many acts of violence and thievery. Ser Gerold had restricted Rhaegar’s movements to around Maegor’s Holdfast unless four of the Kingsguard were guarding him. As the soon-to-be king, he knew it to be a precaution, but he felt annoyance nonetheless.

Rhaegar sat in his bedchamber, reading a tome Lord Oren Kettleblack had gifted him. He had to credit Oren for he had been able to find an unmarked copy of _Citadel Commentaries: On the Ghiscari Wars._  He had accepted the gift, but knew that his father’s master of whisperers had only bestowed the gift to earn his favor.

He had woken from slumber at the first sign of light. Instead of preparing for the day, Rhaegar had taken the chance to read. For him to have a moment to himself was a rarity with all the guests milling about the castle.

Lowering the book, he allowed his mind to reflect over the recent months.

Of the leaders of the realm, Princess Myriah Martell had arrived first with her son, Prince Doran. Her daughter, Princess Elia, did not accompany them due to a sudden illness. The news was troublesome but also had pleased him as it allowed more time without the need for a betrothal.

Rhaegar remembered meeting the mother and son when he was a boy, but the encounter had been unremarkable. Since their arrival, Rhaegar had found he shared a similar temperament with the Dornish prince. However, he quickly learned to keep the man from wine.

With Myriah came Lady Delonne Allyrion and Lady Aena Penrose. All three had been his mother’s handmaidens in their youth. The princess had also brought along a wheelhouse full of silk gowns, Myrish lace, and gilded fabrics. His parents’ disagreeable marriage had been known to few, but her ladies had been there since the beginning.

Rhaella seemed to flourish with the arrival of her friends. After the death of King Aerys had been announced, his mother played the part of a forlorn widow for the eyes of the court. For the past seven years, his father had dictated Rhaella’s every move. As a consequence, she no longer had strong allies amongst her husband’s courtiers. That changed once the Dornish Princess reached King’s Landing.

Two days after their arrival, Rhaella had entered the throne room as though she had stepped out of Old Valyria. Her pale silver-gold hair had been pulled back in an intricate braid underneath an amethyst circlet. Draped in gilded lilac silk, she had turned the heads of the lords with her tightened waist and form on display. At two and thirty, his mother was still a woman in her prime.

It had only been four moons, yet none dared to comment on how little the Queen Mother had mourned for her husband.

After her bold entrance, Rhaella never went anywhere without being escorted by her former ladies. Many of the crownland nobles flocked back to their castles after seeing they had lost their influence. Others sought to be in her good favor.

To his chagrin, Princess Myriah and his mother had spent many of their evenings attempting to formalize the betrothal between him and Elia. The Dornish leader had brought a large portrait of her daughter, and Rhaegar agreed she was lovely. To their disappointment, he remained firm about meeting her first. The exotic princess was comely, yet the painting did not tell Rhaegar anything about her.

“She is very strong,” Ser Arthur had told him when he asked. “Kind. Clever, as well.”

His friend had remained unforthcoming about the princess. It was odd considering Arthur and his brother had fostered at the Water Gardens. Arthur had even mentioned how Oberyn, the youngest prince, had been an absolute terror. Rhaegar had always assumed they had played in the pools and fountains with all of Myriah’s children.

As a result, whom Princess Elia Martell was, and her intentions remained a mystery to him. With so few Targaryens left, he needed to be able to trust the woman who would become his queen.

Luckily, Ser Jon Connington had returned to King’s Landing after arriving with House Baratheon’s retinue. Rhaegar had considered sending a dignitary to Sunspear after the coronation. Perhaps Jon would be able to fill that role and tell him more about the princess. The fiery red-haired man was a loyal confidante and often a good judge of character.

Following the stormlanders came a steady flow of the other great houses.

Lord Arryn brought along his two wards, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, to the capital. Robert was Rhaegar’s kin through their great-great-grandparents. He had heard rumors about the heir of Storm's End, but Rhaegar scarcely knew the young lordling. The other boy, Eddard, had been quiet and solemn—all the more when compared to Robert’s boisterous personality.

Whether in King’s Landing or through his travels during his youth, Rhaegar had met many of the lords and lower nobles. Yet, it was the first time he had encountered them as their soon-to-be king. He knew they were all looking for weakness from him or if he carried the madness of his ancestors.

He knew the words spoken about him. The commoners may call him “The Silver Prince,” but the nobles were not always so kind. His critics—mostly allies of his late father—claimed he was too young for a crown. Some lords found him to be cold or aloof in his attempts at impartiality. Women thought him to be boring for he cared more for books than wooing or dancing.

Others whispered about the friendships he shared with men who carried suspected… _reputations_. Prince Daeron Targaryen was still fresh in the minds of the realm, and many had drawn comparisons with Rhaegar’s lack of a wife or mistress. The court was unaware that Jon Connington and Marq Grafton were worth their weight, regardless of their appetites.

In his youth, Rhaegar realized that his father’s court was filled with few houses outside of the crownlands. So, he had collected a group of friends that came from across the kingdom. Devoted men who would follow him and who could potentially sway the opinion of their liege lords.

Bitterness still seeped from the broken proposals of his ancestors. Forty years prior, four Targaryen royals had set aside their betrothals. As a result, Luthor Tyrell had married Olenna Redwyne and had strengthened the Reach. The Riverlands also gained more power when the spurned Celia Tully married into House Darry. An ambitious Lord Lyonel Baratheon had wed his daughter, Rowena, to a widowed Lord Jon Arryn. Though their union had been fruitless, the marriage had bonded the two great houses.

Tensions had continued to build over time within the kingdom, and only Lord Tywin had attempted to pacify them. He had suggested fosterage and had arranged marriages of loyal families into those that held distrust in the crown. To Rhaegar’s displeasure, the Hand of the King had also appeased some of the high lords by repealing laws, rights, and protections that had been granted to the smallfolk.

Despite his reservations about Tywin’s ambitions, he knew the man was an excellent Lord Hand. He had held the realm together for the past fifteen years, and he would need him for now.

“Your Grace?”

Rhaegar was pulled from his thoughts by a voice from outside his door. He knew it was Jaremy from the tone—the page was often tasked with waking him.

Knowing there was no use in denying his responsibilities, he laid down his book and called out for him to enter.

A stream of attendants followed the dark-haired boy as the day officially began. A tall steward followed Rhaegar’s instructions as he decided upon his attire while the boys readied his bath. All the while, a cupbearer served him lemon water and a chewing pack of herbs to wash his mouth.

Maester Pycelle arrived to briefly check his health as the servants finished filling his copper tub with hot water and oils. After the maester left, Rhaegar disrobed and slid into the steaming bath. He closed his eyes and enjoyed a moment of muteness as he leaned his head below the water. When he reemerged, Rhaegar noticed his two squires had entered the chambers to give a morning report.

Privacy was rare in the life of a prince and even less for a future king.

Richard Lonmouth and Myles Mooton had been by his side for the past two years. Both had become his close companions. Myles was exceptionally smart and often outwitted his sparring partners. Richard held a love for competition—whether it be swords, dice, or the pursuit of hearts—and was constantly attempting to outdo his peer.

According to the boys, no deaths had occurred in King’s Landing during the night and that the banners of House Stark had been seen from the harbor. For his squires, the only exciting news was that a daughter from House Lowther had been caught up in a scandal with a knight from House Morrigen.

Rhaegar snorted at the tale as a servant rinsed out his hair. Jon would have a laugh at the revelation—House Morrigen had been a thorn to his lord father of late.

“And what of the prince of Dorne, did he behave after I retired?” Rhaegar asked though he could guess the answer.

“He drank Robert Baratheon under a table,” piped Richard with a grin.

Myles rolled his eyes at his counterpart before saying, “The prince held his liquor, but the young stag was too ambitious with his chalice. The last I saw of the lordling, Ned Stark and a servant were carrying him to his chambers.”

The revelation made Rhaegar frown. It wasn’t the first time he had heard of such behavior from his younger kin.

The boys chattered about courtly gossip as Rhaegar finished his bath. Tarey, the tall steward from before, assisted him with his clothes; crimson doublet, black velvet tunic with golden fastenings, black trousers lined in gold, a ruby-encrusted ring and his Valyrian dagger at his belt.

Lastly, Myles helped Tarey drape a black silk sash over him. It was a subtle reminder to the court of his father's passing. He did not blame his mother for her defiance or lack of mourning the man, but Rhaegar had to appease his father’s allies.

Without aid, he plaited his damp hair to one side before carefully choosing two books from his desk. He nodded to Ser Gerold and Prince Lewyn as he exited the bedchamber. The kingsguards walked beside him while his squires followed closely as he swept through multiple rooms and down the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast to an awaiting court.

As soon as he left the royal apartments, he encountered a procession of lords formed in the mirrored hall leading through the Queen's Ballroom. The gathered crowd bowed at his presence as he walked by them. Some men spoke briefly to him while others slipped his squires small scrolls of messages.

Once past the throng of morning courtiers, Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur joined their group and patrolled behind them. Rhaegar and his men walked out to the long serpentine stairs and down to the small sept reserved for royal members. He believed not in the Faith but welcomed the few minutes of silence as he bent to each of the seven statues. His father had not seen fit to please the High Septon, but Rhaegar knew he needed the man’s favor.

They took a more private route upon his return to his apartments. Lord Tywin and Lord Qarlton Chelsted, along with several others, met him as he entered his solar. For the next hour, they went over the state of the coin and the cost of the impending coronation. Rhaegar spoke little, listened carefully, and only made a decision when one needed to be made.

After the meeting drew to a close, he asked Tywin to join him to break his fast. The Lord Hand had looked momentarily uncertain by the gesture before schooling his face. Cupbearers and servants brought out a hearty spread for the table before being dismissed. Rhaegar felt an odd tension fill the room once they were alone. Before the death of his father, he had never solely spoken to Lord Tywin.

Rhaegar ate a piece of bread with cheese. He took in the early sun as it glimmered on the bay outside the windows.

Tywin was silent, and Rhaegar could feel the weight of his stare. Moments passed before he decided to state, “I have decided upon my small council.”

“Is that so, Your Grace,” Tywin replied with an arch of his brow. The man had not taken a bite of food, Rhaegar noted.

“I want Steffon Baratheon to be my Master of Ship.” Lord Steffon was known to be an imposing figure with a brilliant military mind. His kin had proved to be reliable in the past as well.

“Steffon has cemented his legacy with his third son. He will have little excuse to deny his duty to the realm, Your Grace,” Tywin responded in his normal dour tone. Without giving his opinion, Rhaegar also noted.

“That is what I hope.”

Rhaegar paused before supping on his barley and venison soup. He could sense Tywin judging him, weighing every word. A quick glance told him the man was also quietly losing his patience.

“As for Master of Coin,” he began. “Perhaps the position would appease Lord Darry after my father’s former _involvement_ with his wife. Surely Lord Leyton has also missed the company of his brothers.” Despite his father’s dalliance, House Darry had been Targaryen loyalists for many years. Leyton’s brothers were Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard and Ser Willem Darry, who held the position of the Red Keep's master-at-arms.

He continued at Tywin’s short nod.

“I have found that Lord Oakheart would be a fair Master of Laws.” Rhaegar knew that Harys was a man that even Tywin Lannister respected. After the Tourney at Lannisport, he had visited Old Oak to view the historical tapestries of the keep. Rhaegar had found himself staying more nights than planned after being impressed by the reachman’s candor and sensibilities.

“A man close to Luthor Tyrell.”

“Yes, a benefit,” Rhaegar responded, though he did not know if Tywin believed the same. “To replace Lord Kettleblack, I will choose Ser Tytos Blackwood. Though he is young, I know few men who are as well versed in subterfuge.”

“Bold. I am sure House Bracken will not be pleased.” It was the first Tywin had disagreed with him. The feud between the two houses was notorious in the Riverlands. Lord Tully had to intervene to stop a war just a few years prior. Even so, Tytos had kept close to his distant kin. Notably House Stark and Tully amongst other lords.

“I will need a strong Hand of the King to settle any discord,” Rhaegar stated in return.

“Who will aid you in this, Your Grace?” Lord Tywin asked, with cool courtesy.

Instead of answering, Rhaegar stood from the table. He walked to the center of the balcony and carefully placed his hands against the stone edge. A sudden unease fell over him as he realized his unguarded position in front of the man. _One push and the Seven Kingdoms would be left to a widowed queen and an infant prince._

He knew Tywin Lannister was anything but a fool.

“I shall be blunt. House Targaryen is at its weakest in centuries, Lord Tywin. My ancestors’ impulsiveness created instability that has lasted forty years. Moreover, my late father did nothing to soothe that hurt. He relied too heavily on houses from the Crownlands and cared more for masked balls than ruling.” Rhaegar straightened and turned to look at the man. The Lord of Casterly Rock had risen from his seat but had not dared to move from the table. “Despite naming you his hand, he countered you in every instance he could. Belittled you in court, coveted your wife and laughed at your sorrow. And yet, you ruled his kingdom to the best of your abilities.”

The tall, slender man leaned with one palm on the table and the other clenched tight.

“I say this for I do not want animosity between us. He was my sire, and I may share his looks, but I am not my father,” Rhaegar said as he walked closer to the man. “I shall be king in less than a moon, and as the king, my duty is to protect my people. I hope that you will help me in healing the realm as you continue to serve as my chief advisor.”

Tywin showed little emotion at the offer. Instead, he merely bent to one knee and answered, “It will be my privilege, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Rhaegar clipped. He motioned for Tywin to rise before they both sat back at the table. In a less formal tone, he asked, “Your son is being fostered by Lord Crakehall, correct?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“My squires are near knighthood. If it would please you, I want to take Jaime on as my squire after the coronation. I have asked Lord Arryn’s nephew to join him,” he said before drinking from his chalice. “As my duties become more burdensome, I will allow the boys to train with the kingsguard as Myles and Richard have done in the past.”

“You honor me, Your Grace,” the Lord Hand said with what Rhaegar interpreted as sincerity. He could tell this had surprised Tywin. Two years prior, his father had refused a similar suggestion. One of the many rebukes Tywin had experienced.

“Your son’s skills have already been highly praised, and he has not seen his twelfth nameday. The honor is mine,” he replied with a small smile. Rhaegar rarely gave such flattery in his compliments. “To confess, I also offer you this in hopes to ease your anger.”

Tywin visibly tightened at the words. “Anger over what, Your Grace?”

“As I have told Maester Pycelle, I will be entering a tentative courtship with Princess Elia Martell,” Rhaegar declared. He needed to choose his next words carefully. “However, Elia is simply the eldest of my possible betrothals. Should an arrangement not take place, I would intend to delay my marriage. With Viserys as my heir, I would wait until the many eligible maidens of the realm become of age.”

Rhaegar was met with another arched brow from the man.

“If that comes to pass... know that I have no intentions of marrying your daughter, Lord Tywin,” he said as carefully as he could.

The other man’s jaw clenched, and Rhaegar knew he had to continue quickly. “My words may be blunt, but no slight is intended. For the betterment of the realm, I will need to marry outside of your house. Despite your loyalty, I have seen that my father has given too much power to the Westerlands in addition to the Crownlands. The new small council I envision is one which represents all the kingdoms. The marital decision I make will be made with that same equality in mind. With that, as my right hand, the scale is tipped too far to your favor.”

Tywin gave no response.

After a short lull, Rhaegar said, “You may speak freely, my lord.”

Tywin steepled his fingers before replying, “Your words do not please me, Your Grace. Yet, I see you hold no animosity. Unlike your father when he told me the same,” he frowned as though lost in the memory. The man shifted and clasped his hands beneath his chin. “I see little of him in you, Your Grace. Pray take those words as a compliment.”

With some hesitation, Rhaegar admitted, “He was a _difficult_ man, my lord.”

“I fear the crown addled your father’s mind. I hope the same will not be said of you,” Tywin replied in a dry tone. “Your father grew to mistrust me as I sought to bring his vision of the kingdom to fruition. A vision we formed as boys, half-starved and frozen from rain, whilst fighting for the Stepstones. Mayhaps I never truly knew Aerys—I saw little of the boy he had been in the last fifteen years.”

The words Tywin spoke were the most he had ever heard about his father’s time during the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

“I think we both saw my father for what he was,” Rhaegar replied before staring back out to the water. “I have no desire to follow him.”

“Good,” Tywin said sharply. The man relaxed his hands to the table and straightened his back. “May your reign be prosperous, Your Grace. I hope to offer some words of advice. You may be a fool if you believe you will please every lord in the kingdom.”

“Then a fool I shall inspire to be, Lord Hand,” Rhaegar said in jest but agreed with him. It would be a tricky business. Rhaegar rose from his seat and Tywin followed his action. “My thanks, Lord Tywin.”

The hand of the king knew the tone of dismissal. Rhaegar clasped his hand in farewell and bid him a good day.

After Tywin left his chambers, Rhaegar allowed the servants to return to clean the table. Walking to his desk, he thought over the meeting. He had been surprised by Tywin’s candor, but not by his disgruntlement over the lack of a betrothal. Tywin would privately seethe over it, Rhaegar knew.

One thing was left unsaid, but Rhaegar hoped his hand had understood. Unlike his father. he had no intention for anyone to believe the Lord of Casterly Rock ruled in his place.

The day passed by slowly. After the meeting with Tywin, he walked the gardens with his mother and her ladies, watched his squires and the Kingsguard spar, and listened to selected petitioners from the day before.

Lord Rickard Stark and his retinue arrived to the keep in the early evening. With the lord came a small escort of other northern men. Not anointed knights, as they were not followers of the Seven, but warriors from the frozen North.

Whispers from the court had started long before their arrival. _Barbarians. Men who still practiced the first night. Human sacrifices to their bleeding trees._

Notions that Rhaegar had believed when he was a child and met the lord for the first time. He had been disappointed when he found none of the tales were true. The Northern lord had impressed him, in any case. Rickard Stark had not given King Aerys the never-ending pleasantries touted by the other lords. The man had seen through the grandiose promises of manning the Night's Watch with thousands of men. Or building a second wall further into the wild lands beyond. Aerys had been quite the dreamer early in his reign.

The Great Hall had been arranged into a large dining area with hundreds of torches, burning in the sconces along the walls. Forty long wooden tables had been brought in for supper. At late night the hall would be transformed into a large sleeping area for visiting guests—mainly servants and lower guards. The dragon skulls were illuminated by the fire, casting dark shadows across the cavernous hall. Lanterns had been placed behind the Iron Throne, causing the sharp swords to shine in the light.

The view was intimidating.

Yet, the northerner showed no hesitation at the sight.

“Your Grace,” he greeted Rhaegar solemnly before bending to one knee. Rhaegar rose from his wooden seat to walk towards the northern lord. It would seem that the man had not changed much in the past thirteen years.

“Rise, my lord. I welcome you to King’s Landing.” He then motioned for a servant to bring forth ale, bread, and salt. “May you be safe under my protection.”

“My thanks for your reception, Your Grace,” he replied. Lord Stark’s gravelly voice carried throughout the hall as he ate a piece of salted bread and drank from the tankard.

“You must be tired from your journey, Lord Stark,” Rhaegar said. He knew the man was not one for pleasantries. “Ser Connington shall show you to your room. I’m afraid the city is overfull, but Jon can direct your men to the shared quarters.”

“You are kind, Your Grace.” The Warden of the North nodded and then added with some uncertainty, “I was given a task from Maester Aemon of the Night’s Watch. Winter has set in the north and ravens have not been surviving the journey from Castle Black. A brother was sent with this parcel.” He reached into the satchel at his hip for a leather-bound package and handed it out to Rhaegar.

He could hear Ser Gerold shift beside him. Rhaegar gave a small smile and motioned for a page to take the parcel. “Many thanks, my lord. I shall be most pleased to see what my uncle has sent.”

Later in his chambers, Rhaegar examined the books and letters from his distant uncle. Ser Gerold had deemed the package safe, though Rhaegar had little fear it would not be. A few letters were dated prior to his father’s death—speaking of manpower shortages at The Wall and crumbling castles. Others were on maintaining stability while King Aerys was imprisoned. He later expressed his condolences and gave Rhaegar words of advice.

Witnessing six other kings upon the Iron Throne had given the man invaluable wisdom.

He retired to bed and began to read the collection of legends and stories from Essos that Maester Aemon had sent.

\----

At first, all he could see was darkness.

With it came air so frigid that it felt as though his bones had turned to ice. Puffs of breath escaped his mouth, and he watched as it floated away into the abyss. Clouds parted from above and behind them came a full moon that lit the sky. Stars appeared in a clarity he had only seen at the ruins of Summerhall.

Rhaegar blinked as his eyes adjusted to the cold and new sight before him.

His stomach pulled when he made the mistake of glancing towards his feet. Below him was nothingness. He stood on the very edge of a vast wall of ice.

It was _the_ Wall.

He took a tentative step back until his foot crunched upon a patch made of crushed stone. Sleep clung to him as Rhaegar tried to understand how he had arrived so far north—to a place he had only read about in books. His imagination had not conjured such a wonder.

The Wall seemed to pulsate with life. With old magic. It was a feeling he had only felt at Summerhall or when near the dragon bones of the throne room. The cliff of ice glimmered in moonlight, and it was an endless sight as he looked down and to the side.

He turned to glance behind him and felt his frozen breath leave his body.

 _‘On a clear day, you can see half the world from the top of the Wall,’_ his great-great uncle had once written to him.

His kingdom was laid out before his eyes. Never had he felt so small. The land was aglow with soft light coming from the cities spread across the realm. It was too far to see structures or people, but he felt the weight of them as he looked out.

“Why have you come here?”

The muffled voice made him turn sharply. About twenty paces away a young man had appeared. He looked warm, wrapped in furs over leather armor. His face was pale from the moonlight while his long curls blended with the dark cloak he wore.

Before Rhaegar could speak, the earth began to tremble beneath his feet. He fell to his knees, and the icy ground stung his bare hands as he caught himself. His inner ears ached as frigid gusts of wind flew around him. The tremors subsided, but he was too unsteady to stand.

“He is near,” the man said, and Rhaegar felt a sense of foreboding. The dark-haired man had walked closer to him during the quakes.

“W-who is near?” His voice broke from the sudden dryness in his throat.

“He who seeks to smother the fires.” The stranger gestured towards the realm before looking out into the land beyond the Wall. “He carries darkness. A darkness that can only be destroyed—”

“—by a burning sword,” Rhaegar finished for him. He was all too familiar with the prophecy of The Prince That Was Promised. “It is the burden that I carry.”

The man’s soft laugh caught him off guard.

“I have never known you to be a fool.” The queer smile on his face was unsettling. With a snort, he said, “Stand before me. Kings do not kneel.”

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes at the boy’s mocking tone. “I am not yet a king,” he replied as he stood before the stranger.

“Nor are you yet a father and here I stand.”

Rhaegar frowned at his statement. Does he speak in riddles?

At first glance, he had not seen a resemblance but now as he stared at him... Rhaegar could see that the man shared his nose and cheeks. The set of their eyes were similar, but the color was different, darker. The heavy fur covered his mouth and chin.

Filled with disbelief, Rhaegar took a step back.

“That destiny has always been mine, Father,” the young man said in a sad tone. “Yours has been to unify the realm. By means of life or death.”

Rhaegar felt the air closing in around him, and he backed away from the stranger who claimed to be his son. Without realizing how close he had become, he found himself teetering on the edge of the Wall. Helpless, he flailed out his arms, but nothing was near to catch his grasp as he fell into the darkness. With a wordless cry, he dropped to his death.

His final glimpse was of the dark-haired man as he grew smaller and smaller on top of the Wall.

With resignation, Rhaegar shut his eyes and accepted his fate.

\----

Rhaegar’s stomach lurched as he woke from sleep. Blood coursed his veins, and his harsh breathing rang loud in his ears. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair as the fear of dying abated.

The dream was vivid in his mind. Was it indeed a dream?

It had felt unlike anything he had dreamt before. Nightmares of falling, yes—but none had ever felt so real. Death had called his name as he fell and he remembered the pain of hitting the hard, cold ground. Afterward, he had seen glimpses of paths not taken. A painful ache in his chest blossomed as he tried to remember the fragments he had seen.

He knew his ancestors had dreamt of things to come, but never had it happened to him.

A son. His son. Could he truly be the Prince That Was Promised?

If it were to be taken as a vision, then the dream had given him a new destiny. He was to unite the realm, which may only be accomplished by his death. He was to father a son—a son who would carry the burden of the prophecy.

As Rhaegar sat against the back of his bed, he thought of the events he had discovered about his own birth. Had he forced those signs to fit the prophecy? Had he been blinded by hubris?

Arthur had always cautioned him about the conclusion he had made. He had not trusted anyone else with his speculation. “Prophecy is a fickle thing,” his friend had said.

After his body had calmed itself, Rhaegar dressed in a robe and walked to his solar. The stars were still out, but he knew sleep would not come for him again. Collecting his thoughts, he set pen to parchment and wrote the details of his dream.

The early morning light shone through the window as he finished. Five sheets of speculation and drawings—he had scribbled down all he could of the vision. After allowing them to dry, Rhaegar packed the parchment away in one of his books before returning to his chambers.

He knew Jaremy would shortly come to wake him. With a deep breath, he suppressed the dream and focused on the day that would follow.

Yet, later as servants milled about his chambers, one thing from his vision resonated in his head.

To father a son, he would need to acquire a wife.

 

 


	3. Crowned Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The below is my personal take on Rhaegar and Lyanna's appearance based on books/show and things GRRM has said. I had @Konstra on Fiverr design them based some photoshop images I created.

 

****First Moon of**  278 AC - King’s Landing**

_Rhaegar POV  
_  

The coronation itself was a dull affair. The High Septon anointed him, and afterward, his mother crowned him before the court in the Great Sept of Baelor. Commoners and lower lords lined the streets and had given a deafening cheer as he waved from the wheelhouse to and from the sept.

According to others, it had been a lavish ceremony, and his crowning had invigorated the kingdom with new promise.

Festivities continued throughout the day and passed by in a blur. Sitting upon the Iron Throne had not been as pleasing as he had envisioned. A long procession of lords and ladies had pledged their fealty as he sat in the uncomfortable chair for hours.

Various tokens were bestowed onto him by his subjects. The Hand of the King gifted him a complete set of golden armor. The piece was a work of art with intricate designs showing his ancestors and their dragons. Rhaegar knew he would never wear the set for it was too valuable and frail for true battle. To no surprise, Lord Tywin had managed to show the wealth of his house.

His new Master of Ships presented an apt gift of a miniature two-masted galley and announced the ship was being built in his wife’s family home of Greenstone. The massive galley would be a twin to House Baratheon’s _Windproud._  Steffon had been a favored relative of his father and sailing on the _Windproud_ was one of Rhaegar’s earliest memories. It was told that his kin had been a fixture in court and had kept the often bored King Aerys entertained. He hoped the man would do the same for him.

Besides the letters and books from his great-uncle, Lord Stark brought him a bronzed shield thought to be dated to the First Men. From Lord Oakheart, Rhaegar received a tapestry of Aegon’s Conquest; from the Princess of Dorne, a ruby-encrusted brooch; a tall weirwood longbow from House Blackwood; and a joint gift of land near the Trident from House Darry and House Whent.

Rhaegar had a short respite before the feast began.

His squires and servants helped him change into a less elaborate attire. They removed the jeweled chains and weighted cloak from his chest. As Myles carried the cloth to an awaiting steward, Rhaegar admired the design. The finest ermine covered the shoulders, and the cloak’s bottom half was crafted from hand-woven crimson velvet, lined with white silk. The three-headed sigil of his house was embroidered in gold.

His golden robes were just as ornate. Dragons and sigils from the other major houses covered the thick fabric as a symbol of unity throughout the seven kingdoms.

Rhaegar removed all but one ring from his hand and changed from the stiff robes into a high-collared, crimson doublet.

Once dressed, he dismissed everyone before walking out to his balcony. Even behind the gates of the Red Keep, Rhaegar could hear sounds of celebrations ringing throughout King’s Landing. A part of him yearned to be with the common folk, but he knew that could not.

With a deep sigh, he readied his mind for the long night ahead of him.

\----

For the feast, a platform had been erected in front of the Iron Throne. Rhaegar found himself in the middle of a large, finely-carved table. On his right sat Tywin and Rhaella at his left with Princess Myriah by her side.

At one end, Lord Baratheon and Lord Tyrell regaled Prince Doran and Jon Connington with stories from the War of the Ninepenny King's. At the other, Maester Pycelle told Lord Darry and Lord Oakheart of the healing properties of aurochs bladder as he ate sliced meat from the beast.

A young man played the lute as the room settled into low conversations whilst enjoying the food. Rhaella had organized the seating of the closest tables but had allowed others to choose their seats. Despite initially having a spot at the high table, Lord Stark and Lord Arryn had requested to sit with their men.

In between the courses, he had lost track of how many eligible women had been presented to him. Though they had only invited lords and their wives, they found ways to parade their young daughters and sisters in front of him.

Despite the forced pleasantries, Rhaegar tried to find his son’s likeness in every maiden he met.

He had drawn sketches of him for days after the dream. The fur his son had worn had covered half his face, but Rhaegar drew what he had seen. Eyes slightly sunken and high cheeks. His nose was straight with a slight curve to the end. The man’s somber disposition had also been similar to his own.

His coloring was so different from the Targaryens who had come before him. Duncan, the Prince of Dragonflies, had been dark of hair, but few others came to mind. The moonlight had caused his eyes to appear black, and Rhaegar wondered at their color.

Lord Tywin pulled him from his contemplation to present another lord and his wide-eyed daughter. Lord Redwyne was cousin to Olenna Tyrell, the formidable Lady of Highgarden—even Aerys had been wary of the woman. Thankfully for the court, Olenna was attending the birth of her second grandchild. Rhaegar had noticed that Lord Luthor looked to be liberated without her overwhelming presence.

A change in the music caused Rhaegar to glance over. The musician his mother had chosen was skilled, but Rhaegar’s fingers itched to take the instrument away and play it himself. His harp held a thin layer of dust in his chambers as he had found little time to play in the past few weeks.

“The wolves approach as does the young stag,” Jon announced in a near whisper from beside Tywin. Rhaegar pulled his intense stare from the lutenist to see the lord and two boys walk towards the high table. Lord Stark was followed by his dark-haired sons; all three northerners were dressed in white and various shades of gray.

From farther behind them walked his cousin, Robert. It was hard to miss his kin for the young lordling was more man than boy in appearance—his shoulders were broad, and he towered over the other three in height.

“Your Grace, I present my youngest sons, Eddard and Benjen,” The older lord said with a bow. The boys followed suit and Rhaegar gave them a nod.

“Well met, young sers,” he replied as he looked them over. The older of the two boys wore a solemn mask over his plain face. He looked to be the spitting image of his lord father.

“It is an honor, Your Grace,” the eldest boy said with a nod of his head. Rhaegar watched as Eddard slightly nudged his younger brother.

“Y-yes. An honor, Y-your Grace,” the boy stuttered his words. Unlike his kin, the youngest Stark seemed overawed at his presence. Rhaegar gave them a small smile before looking back to their father.

“I was most pleased by Maester Aemon’s letters, My Lord,” Rhaegar said to the man. “My grand-uncle is quite the wordsmith. You have my thanks for delivering his writings to me.”

After a few polite remarks with the Starks, Rhaegar spoke to Robert. The dark-haired youth looked uncomfortable at the protocol.

“A fine feast, Your Grace,” his cousin said with a half bow. Robert had been presented to him earlier by his father.

“I agree, young ser,” Rhaegar replied before nodding his head toward his mother. “The Queen Mother should be credited. What you see before you was her vision.”

His cousin glanced over to Rhaella and Rhaegar watched as Robert’s eyes widen at the sight of her. His mother gave a bright smile before replying, “You honor me, Your Grace.”

Robert’s eyes lingered over her and Rhaegar frowned at the sight. Clearing his throat, he said kindly, “It is good to see you in such fine health, cousin.”

“My thanks, Your Grace,” Robert replied and then gave a loud laugh. He raised his goblet before saying, “Shall we drink to yours?”

He watched with mild amusement as the lordling called for a toast. The lutenist quieted, and the hall rang as men drank to his health. With a forced smile, he nodded at the cheers.

The movement caused his new crown to shift. Rhaegar had almost forgotten it was there as he had already become accustomed to the weight. The thin, unornamented band had been created in the likeness of the one belonging to his great-grandfather. The original had been one of the many lost at Summerhall.

Not for the first time, Rhaegar felt a wave of loneliness while facing his subjects. Even while surrounded by his mother and allies, he could not help but wonder if the dead kings before him had felt the same. As alone as he did at that moment.

His mother’s words echoed in his mind.

_What is a man without a woman by his side?_

 

* * *

 

****Third Moon of 278 AC**  - Winterfell**

_Lyanna POV_

Pale mist covered the grounds of Winterfell in the early morning. With it, the air carried a slight chill that made her shiver. The mornings were cold at Winterfell, but would warm by the time she would break her fast.

Lyanna nodded to yawning guards as she passed them on her way back from the ancient godswood. There was little activity until the men switched shifts at first light. On occasion, she would catch one of them asleep.

Instead of waking Berena in the early hour, Lyanna had simply left her long hair loose after combing it. Underneath her heavy fur cloak, she wore a thick woolen dress with a leather belt and boots. The cold still froze her cheeks, in spite of her warm clothes.

She often woke before most of the castle to sit by the heart tree. The godswood always brought her an indescribable solace and she enjoyed starting her day with a clear mind. Ned had once quipped that the black pool cooled her wolf’s blood.

The memory made Lyanna frown.

Eddard had not bothered to pray at the sacred tree when he last visited. In her opinion, the Vale was too distant from the north and the protection of their gods. Lyanna often questioned why her father had sent her brother so far away.

In the past seven years, he had only traveled home a handful of times. It often took days to adjust to his presence when he did. Ned was the most reserved out of the four of them, and it was often hard to gauge his mood. Brandon blamed it on his southern fosterage, but she had always known her brother to be quiet.

With Ned in the Eyrie and Brandon fostering with Lord Dustin, Winterfell had been home to only Benjen and herself for many years. Brandon would often visit, as Barrowton was only five days away, but Benjen had been too young to remember when Ned first left.

_“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”_

She was often reminded of her mother’s warning. When his fosterage began, Lyanna knew she could not allow Ned to become an outsider to their family. That they needed to stay together—no matter the distance. She often wrote him letters and gave him a glimpse of Winterfell with her words.

It had been a year and a half since his last visit—where Benjen had developed a fondness for him during his stay. Ned was undoubtedly patient with their youngest brother and more than happy to share the martial training he’d received. She had been glad to see her brothers together.

Light snow began to fall as she made her way back to the Great Keep. Her skirts quietly shifted the soft dusting on the ground as she walked. She had developed a quiet step after years of sneaking up on Benjen. The skill had been useful then and suddenly became helpful in the present.

Lyanna paused at the low voice above her. Carefully, she stepped into the shadows created by the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep.

“—two more stags will be yours on your return. Maester Kym will give you a similar reward on delivery in Riverrun.”

The voice belonged to Maester Walys. She knew the honeyed timbre all too well.

The responding voice was hushed and Lyanna struggled to hear what the other person had said. "Of course, m'lord."

Maester Walys did not correct the misused honorific, she noted.

The soft sound of footsteps made her press herself against the cold stone wall. She said a silent thanks to the gods of old for her choice of a dark cloak.

A dark-haired boy walked swiftly down the steps—about four paces from where she was hidden. He wore a muddy rabbit’s fur over simple garb. His look made Lyanna realize he was a commoner. In his hands, he held a cloth-bound package.

She watched as he crossed the courtyard and walked to the east gate. With bated breath, she waited to see if Maester Walys would follow. He would more than likely notice her presence. Lyanna often felt the man had eyes in the back of his head.

The groan of a closing door made her relax from her position. With a tilt of her head, she stared at the back of the boy’s head with intensity.

No longer was she interested in returning to her chambers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this was a bit short, but I decided to break up Lyanna's POV.
> 
> In my opinion, people thought Jon looked like Ned in the books because they knew him to be Jon’s father. Just like in real life and when you have a child, people typically say your kid looks like you or your spouse. Ned obviously did not want Jon to go to King’s Landing for reason and I think it’s because he had some Targaryen features. I love Kit Harington, but I've always preferred Magali Villeneuve’s vision of Jon.
> 
> Here's my take on him: https://66.media.tumblr.com/baa6f9a3c4f7b0d3396630bfdd7dd44a/tumblr_pfjgkudpJS1vfd1zz_500.jpg
> 
> The Starks are known for their “long face and brown hair” but Rhaegar has only met Rickard Stark twice and has never seen any of the other Starks until now. Rhaegar’s own face looked to be somewhat long from all the versions of him.
> 
> Of the Starks, I see Brandon as Tom Mison and Benjen still as Joseph Mawle—the two have similar facial features and take after their mother. Whereas Ned (Sean Bean with darker hair) favors Rickard (Wayne Foskett). Lyanna has a mix of her parents/ancestors.
> 
> I think they chose Aisling Franciosi for Lyanna to bear a resemblance to Maisie Williams. I see her more as a combination of Kaya Scodelario and Genevieve Gaunt.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts!


	4. A Wandering Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The below is my personal take on Rhaegar and Lyanna's appearance based on books/show and things GRRM has said. I had @Konstra on Fiverr design them based some photoshop images I created.

 

****Third Moon of 278 AC - Winterfell** **

_Lyanna POV_

Lyanna had never ridden the horse she had taken, but the filly had been small enough to saddle and mount without aid.

 _Frost_ had been her preference, but the well-bred palfrey was too large for a quick escape. She also found him to be too stubborn before his morning feeding.

By the luck of the gods, the drawbridge had been left down from the departure of an early morning hunting party. Lyanna slipped out of the Hunter’s Gate when the guards changed their positions. If anyone had seen her escape, then no alarms had been sounded.

It had not been the first time she had snuck out of Winterfell’s walls. However, her brothers were not by her side on this occasion, and all their adventures had been in winter town.

Lyanna was now a half league away from her home. The sun had risen slowly, but memory had aided her as she made her way out of the wolfswood and onto the kingsroad. Her father had taken Benjen and herself through the woods dozens of times over the years.

The filly climbed a small hill and Lyanna spotted the boy riding atop of a donkey a half mile ahead. Her presence would soon be missed in the castle, but a nagging feeling told her that she needed to know what was in the parcel. She clucked her tongue and gave the horse a squeeze to pick up the pace. 

“You there,” she called out, giving him a small start. The stranger halted to wait for her on the road.

In the early sun, she could see he looked to be only a few years older than herself. The clothes he wore under his rabbit’s fur were old and patched together. _Yes, a commoner, for certain._

As she neared, he leaned back in his saddle and gave her a roguish smile. Dipping his head to the side, he looked at her from head to toe. With a grin in place, he said, “I must owe the gods. For they have brought me a fine beauty.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes at his words of flattery.

His dark hair was dirty and unruly, falling partially over his eyes. Comely, he was not. His face was thin—too thin—and his nose was crooked as if he had broken it before. She ignored his comment and asked, “What business did you have with Maester Walys?”

There was a brief pause between them after her words.

“What were you doing spying on us?” The boy countered in a mocking tone. There was a glint in his black eyes that caused a shiver to run up her spine. “I saw you there, creepin’ in the shadows.”

She tried to school her face at the revelation, but the snort he gave showed he saw straight through her. “All right, girl. I’ll tell you for a price.”

“A price?” The notion had not occurred to Lyanna. The black-haired boy nodded, and she considered her options. “The maester paid you two stags and promised four more, correct? What if I was to offer double for the package he gave you.”

He laughed aloud and replied, “I had thought of asking for a kiss. But if you have coin, I like the thought of that much better.”

She was suddenly glad to have a knife at her hip—a small hunter’s blade that Brandon had given her on her last nameday.

“How much coin do you have on you?” The smile slowly slid off his face, and the flat stare he gave her was unnerving. He seemed much more dangerous than before, and she was suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was. His donkey would most likely not outrun her filly, but it would not become as tired. The boy also had brute strength over her. Though younger, he was nearly Brandon’s height and looked to be just as strong.

She brushed her cloak back to show the knife and placed her hand over the hilt of the blade.

“Enough to pay you,” her retort was curt. Her purse held a dozen stags and a few pennies, but she did not care if she lost the extra change. “Toss me the package, and I will throw you my purse.”

The boy gave her a wary glance before nodding silently. Lyanna watched as he reached into his saddlebag and pulled out the wrapped bundle. They were about three yards away from one another, but she dared not move. Despite the distance, he managed to toss the package straight into her arms. With one hand, she untied the small bag at her belt.

“My thanks, friend,” Lyanna said and threw the purse in the dirt near his donkey’s feet. She wanted a head start as she did not know if he would decide to chase after her. “You’ll find your coin and more.”

With a squeeze of her thighs, Lyanna pulled the reins with her free hand—the bundle snug under her other arm. He shouted after her, but she did not look back as she rode away from him. She was thankful he did not follow.

After clearing the hill, the filly broke into a gallop.

Her fear lessened as she drew further away from the boy. A rush of excitement washed over her and Lyanna gave a loud laugh. The morning had turned into quite the adventure.

The sun had fully risen as the castle came into view and Winterfell’s double granite walls were a welcomed sight.

The smile eased off her face and a pit in her stomach formed.

Her situation was direr than it had seemed. There would be little chance of sneaking back into the castle.

In front of the main gate and winter town were Haldon—the captain of the household guards—and twelve men riding towards her on horseback.

\----

“By the _gods_ , Lyanna. What ever possessed you to leave Winterfell?” Her brother groaned with his head in his hands. She faced him as he sat behind their father’s writing desk. “I know your hatred for Walys runs deep, but I have never seen you act so foolish.”

Haldon and his men had brought her to him not long after she met them on the road. It was strange to face Brandon in their father’s solar, sitting in his chair.

“I am sorry for the trouble that I caused,” she replied in a soft voice. Remorse hit her as she thought back to how careless she had been. “I have not an excuse. I-I just. I had a feeling that I needed to know what he was sending.”

Brandon raised out of the seat at her words and leaned towards her, against the desk.

“And what did your hunch give you? A few boring letters and a book that’s falling apart? May the gods be _damned!_ ” She flinched at Brandon’s curse as he slammed the said book on the desk. “You have known nothing but safety within these walls, Lyanna. A wilding would not _care_ if you were the daughter of the Warden of the North. He would think you were no different from the daughter of a miller. And he would _take_ you—in more ways than one. Do you understand?”

Hot tears filled her eyes as she nodded. Lyanna tried her best to blink them away. She _did_ understand. During a visit, Morya Blackwood had once spoken of an aunt of hers—her kin had been assaulted by a brigand and lost her maidenhead. To make matters worse, Morya’s grandfather married his daughter off to an old widower after it occurred.

Brandon seemed to falter at the tears running down her cheeks. Their father’s seat creaked as he roughly sat back down.

“You’re the daughter of a great lord, Lyanna,” her brother said with a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “You will be a woman soon and I-I can’t—I fear we will not always be there to protect you. Especially with the wolf blood you carry.”

Lyanna bit at her tongue to keep from reminding him of his own will and misadventures. Instead, she nodded again and wiped at her face.

“I want you to put this foolishness with the maester to rest,” he stated. Brandon sounded just like their father with the way he said it.

“But Brandon—”

“Do _not_ make me repeat my words, Lyanna.” Her brother’s tone left no room for bartering. “Until our lord father returns, you are to remain in your rooms unless accompanied by a guard. I will not tell Walys what you have done. Father can decide to act on that and if you deserve any further punishment.”

\----

Four days past before Lyanna found herself in the godswood again.

Shortly after leaving Brandon, she had been summoned by Lady Donella. Her tutor had not taken the news of her exploit well at all. Lady Donella had felt responsible for not watching her more closely. As a result, Lyanna’s morning lessons started much earlier than before.

Her ladies, Berena and Sybelle, were not pleased and had yawned their way through the sewing session. The early hours made no difference to Lyanna. She found little pleasure in needle work, but her stitches were neat and often praised by Lady Donella. Mending dresses and cloaks were a necessity—what she found daunting was stitching a dozen flowers on a collar to be less _simple_.

After her sewing lesson, she left to meet Bethany Ryswell at the stables.

Though only five years Lyanna’s senior, Bethany was her riding tutor. The Ryswells bred the finest horses in the North, and Bethany had ridden horses as soon as she could walk. When Brandon had left for his fosterage in the Barrowlands, Lyanna’s father sent for the eldest daughter of House Ryswell to become her companion.

In a few moons, her lady would be marrying the widowed Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. The young lord was a somber man who had lost his entire family to a winter fever the year before. Bethany had confessed feeling nervous around her betrothed but felt their marriage would be agreeable.

After arriving at the stables, they set about grooming their horses under the careful eye of Ser Rodrik Cassel.

At Brandon’s behest, Haldon had assigned the knight to be her shadow. Ser Rodrik had become the castle’s master-at-arms a few years prior. She had seen him often—training her brothers and the castle guards in the yard. With the absence of Ned and Benjen and most of Winterfell’s men, Ser Rodrik had been left idle.

Lyanna soon learned Ser Rodrik’s wife was largely pregnant. In truth, Haldon had given him the assignment to stop him taking his worry out on the remaining men.

Knights were rare in the North, but Ser Rodrik’s mother had been from the Riverlands. He had spent his early youth in the South and worshiped their gods. As a result, she found, Ser Rodrik was uncomfortable with the gods of old.

So much so, that he allowed her to enter the godswood alone after her riding lesson.

“There are only four exits, and all are being guarded, my lady,” Ser Rodrik reminded her with a pointed look.

Lyanna nodded and told him that she understood, but suppressed a sigh as she passed through the iron gate.

Though winter had taken hold over the land, the godswood held an otherworldly warmth from the hot springs underneath. She hummed tunelessly as made her way to the ancient heart tree.

Once there, Lyanna pulled up her skirts and untied her riding boots. Heat enveloped her as she dipped her feet into the black pool near the tree’s roots.

She absently kicked her legs and watched as the waves altered her reflection in the inky water. The pool had been her mother’s favorite place in Winterfell. She closed her eyes and tried to remember her mother’s laugh.

“I thought you were strange, but perhaps you’re just fuckin’ mad.”

The voice startled her from her thoughts. With her mouth hanging, Lyanna found herself staring at the black-eyed stranger she had left on the King's Road. The boy stood a few yards away, leaning one arm against a tree. His dirty rabbit mantle had been replaced with a thick, woolen cloak trimmed with gray fox fur. He had his other hand on his hip, near the hilt of a long dirk at his belt.

Lyanna lost her ability to speak as he walked closer to her.

“I figured you were some nosey kitchen maid from your look, but this coin purse told me otherwise,” he said and withdrew the bag from his belt—her house sigil was burned into the leather.

“H-how did you get in here?” Lyanna asked weakly and drew her feet out of the water.

With a sudden rush, her senses returned to her. She pulled her bare feet underneath herself and crouched into a protective stance. Hoping to deter him further, she said, “Come any closer, and I’ll call for the guards.”

He laughed at her but stopped in his steps.

“Your guards are shit—that’s how I got in,” he snorted softly and pulled out a scroll from under his cloak. “You forgot this the other day. I tried to tell you, but you ran off.”

Lyanna gave a long stare at the scroll in his outreached hand but did not take it. Instead, she picked up her boots and placed them under an arm. Only then did she stand. He nor Ser Rodrik were wrong about the guards. Her father had taken too many good men with him in his journey south. Lyanna doubted she could have left the castle with Mallador Locke or Warren Woolfield on duty.

With her eyes narrowed, she straightened to face him and asked, “Why would you come back? You do not seem the type to care.”

“As I see it, you paid me to do a job. If I don’t do that job, it’d sully my reputation,” he said with a raise of his eyebrows. The stranger dropped his hand back down to his side.

Lyanna gave a loud scoff, “It took nothing for me to buy your loyalty, how do I know you’re still not in Walys’ pocket?”

“You don’t. But had I gone to Riverrun, it’d have taken me four months to get hot food and a whore.” His smile grew lecherous as though lost in memory. “I bought both plenty times over with the gold you gave me.”

Repulsion flowed through her as she thought of how her father’s coin had been spent. Instead of commenting, she focused on his attire. “As well as new clothes and a sword, I see.”

“Aye, four months pay is worth sneaking back into this frozen hell,” he gave a mock shiver before stepping closer. The boy was now less than three feet away from her. Lyanna’s eyes focused on the scroll as he moved and she gestured to his hand.

“Do you know what it says,” she asked, suddenly curious what was written.

“Hell if I know,” the boy replied with a shrug. “The old bastard knows I can’t read. Said it was for only Maester Kym’s eyes.”

Lyanna briefly wondered at his insult—if the boy somehow knew Maester Walys had been born a Flowers. However, it was his answer that piqued her interest. “Hand it over, then.”

He gave a tsk and shook his head. “Not without a price.”

“Are you simple? You have all my coin,” she reminded him in annoyance.

"Aye, but this will cost you a kiss,” he said as he twiddled the scroll in his fingers. Lyanna’s eyes widened at his suggestion. The boy continued as though he didn’t notice her shocked face. “I’ve never kissed a highborn before. I wonder if you’re as sweet as the maids in town—even they were better than the ones from the Vale.”

Indignation filled Lyanna as she mulled over the proposition. She had never been kissed, and she certainly did not want her first to be due to a barter. _Or with him._

That scroll could provide information, however.

Lyanna took a deep swallow as she looked at the stranger. His face was cleaner than when she first met him, but it did not make him comely.

“Very well,” she replied and pulled back her shoulders. He looked momentarily surprised at her agreement but gave her a sly grin. The boy drew nearer until he was a handshake away. His dark eyes lacked emotion despite the smile on his face.

Slowly, he drew his empty hand up to her face and lightly touched her cheek. Lyanna willed herself to remain still despite wanting to flinch away.

“My, you _are_ a pretty one,” he murmured before pulling his face closer to her own. She watched as his eyes fluttered to a close.

Seeing her chance, she took a quick step away from him. With her hand in a fist, Lyanna reared back and punched him as hard as she could—right in the nose. A loud crack followed the impact and blood sprayed from his face. He dropped the letter to cover his nose as he stumbled back.

Without much thought, Lyanna picked the scroll up and ran to the other side of the pool. Her feet ached as she stepped on sticks and acorns on the forest floor.

Lyanna knew she would need to leave quickly and bare feet would not aid her. Seeing he was still preoccupied with his injury, she slipped on her boots before picking up a nearby stick.

Her heart was thumping in her chest as she looked at the boy with a small amount of guilt. Blood was dripping over his mouth and hands.

As though he felt her eyes on him, he looked in her new direction.

“You fuckin’ whore, you broke my nose,” he tried to say through his injury. Though, to Lyanna it sounded more like, ‘Ew fuckin’ oar, ew doke my bose.’

“Serves you right,” she said with a raise of her chin. Her fingers ached, but she was thankful Ned and Brandon had shown her how to throw a punch. She never had a use for the lesson until today. “It’s bad enough you spent my coin on whores. I certainly did not want a kiss from you after knowing where your mouth had been.”

The boy spat on the ground as he moved his hands away. His nose took on a distinct slant to the left, and dark spots covered his new clothes.

“Dat’s fair, I guess,” he said thickly with a bloody grin and a wince. The stranger shook his head and remarked, "Fuck, ew're more trouble dan ew're worth."

“So I've heard,” Lyanna quipped and began to walk backward until she felt she had covered enough distance from him. “As I see it, our business is concluded.”

"Aye. I 'ave no deed for you or 'tis freezing shit-ole," he seemed unbothered by her as she backed away.

“Swear it," Lyanna said with firmness and pointed to the heart tree. “Under that tree, the gods know when a man is lying.”

"I'd bye ah hippy man to never see ew again,” he replied with a roll of his eyes. He tilted his head back before adding, “I swear it."

“Good,” she replied with a nod. Lyanna hid the newly acquired scroll down the front of her dress and then added, “Mayhaps you will be reminded of today the next time you try and force a girl to kiss you.”

The boy gave a small laugh in response before groaning at the pain it caused.

“Farewell,” Lyanna said with a grin before running from him.

By the time she had reached the gate, she was breathless. Rodrik seemed concerned over her disheveled appearance, but Lyanna waved him off as she caught her breath. She managed to say, “I thought I heard something in the woods. I-I was frightened by the noise.”

The older man gave a soft snort and said gruffly, “No one has entered the godwoods all morning. Our men saw to that.”

_By the gods, we need better guards._

“Of course, a rabbit perhaps,” Lyanna replied with a weak nod as she smoothed the front of her dress.

As she did, Rodrik’s eyes widened and he exclaimed, “Blood! My lady, are you injured?”

“No, I—” With a glance down, she noticed small red specks over the waist of her bodice. Lyanna reached up and tugged at her braid as she thought of a quick reply, “No, Ser Rodrik, it is sap from the Weirwood. The trees were bleeding quite a bit today.”

The fib was weak, but the older man grimaced at her words and took them to be true.

“Shall you escort me? I need a new dress before I sup with my ladies,” Lyanna said with a forced smile before leading the way to the Great Keep.

\----

Walys wrote of various subjects in his letter to Maester Kym. Concerns over the eyesight of an Archmaester by the name of Walgrave, random scriptures from an old book, and of dead ravens from Castle Black. The maester also asked after his ongoing conservation of the Red Fork’s trout. Lastly, he wrote about the death of King Aerys and of the promising reign of the young dragon.

Much to Lyanna’s overwhelming disappointment, none of what he wrote was particularly damning. She considered burning the scroll, but her conscience had gotten the better of her.

After supper, she found herself—once again—standing before Brandon in their father’s chair.

The solar was eerily quiet as he read Maester Walys’ words. When he was finished, he eyed her in dumb disbelief.

“Should I ask how you came upon this?” Brandon asked and glanced back to the scroll on the desk.

“It would only anger you, brother.”

At her honest words, he sighed softly and rose from the seat. He started towards father’s bookshelf but turned back to look at her. He gave her a calculating stare, as though weighing her with his eyes.

A moment passed before he nodded to himself.

With more resolution, Brandon walked over to a set of old tomes and pulled out the tightly-bound parcel from before. She took note that her brother had been careful to not disrupt the dust on the shelf.

Perhaps he was smarter than she gave him credit.

“Regardless of how … I fear you have discovered something, Lya,” her brother revealed. Lyanna’s eyes widened as he unwrapped the bound items. Brandon laid out the other papers on the desk and held out the old book for her to take. “There is reason to suspect Walys has been plotting with Maester Kym.”

Lyanna’s heart quicken at his words and her hands clutched the book. “Plotting what? Walys’ letter said nothing.”

Brandon knocked a knuckle against the curled paper and said, “Not clearly. That book, however.” He gestured in her direction before holding up another tome. “I had Old-Man Mallor find a copy in the library. Many of the pages are different from the book Walys’ was sending.”

“A cipher then?” Lyanna asked with fascination.

“It would not surprise me. Barb— _ahem,_ I have been told maesters often write in code,” he explained. Lyanna silently wondered at his slip, but it was ignored as he spoke again. “I have already figured out a few verses from his first letter, but I—.”

Brandon paused and pursed his lips before admitting, “I may need your help with the others.”

For him to ask for help, he must really be in need of her assistance.

“I will do as you ask, Brandon,” she replied with a small smile. Lyanna had attempted to stop a grin from forming, but satisfaction flooded her at his words.

“You are the only person at Winterfell that I trust,” he ignored her childish joy and continued with a grim expression. “I do not know how much father knows of Maester Walys’ treachery. But I cannot afford to send a raven.”

“Then you and I have work to be done.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I got hung up on the end and pregnancy-brain hasn't helped! Hope you all enjoyed it!


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